I just heard a fella say it and I couldn’t agree more. The man said, “If I have to hear the words “Pew” and “Gallup” used together ever again –I hope it has to do with a horse that’s passing gas and not political polls!” Smart man, that fella, he is.
I know with some certainty I am maturing. Call me a late bloomer if you must. I am what I am. I’m just a girl trying to get by another day. I’m betting you are too. The new mature me isn’t going to say a word about the election, the outcome or my opinion on it all. No sir! I’m going to train my tongue to be wise or die trying.
I haven’t done much the last little while besides watching hours and hours of political news. If I’m not watching it I’m scanning websites reading opposing opinions to better educate myself. In my spare time I look at photos of something I am lusting over.
I’m getting mature about refraining from belching out any opinions on the election. This is so. I’m not yet mature enough to keep my thrifty sense of fashion at bay when it comes to one thing I want with all my might. I lose my complete sense of fiscally conservative common sense when it comes to UGG boots.
I can about hear you from inside this newspaper. “What in the world are UGG boots?” Well I’m here to tell ya! UGG is a brand name. The boots are of Australian origin and have plush sheepskin on the inside. The price tag is equal to a monthly grocery bill, a car payment or half a rent payment. Every step is cushy-wushy, wooly, wonderful and worth it to us who have abused our feet in high heals. I bought my first pair at a thrift store in Fargo for $2.50 but only because the pricing lady must have never heard of them. Some of you eat when all the election coverage gets too overwhelming. Some of you smoke when it all makes you anxious. A stiff drink does it for others. None of those things cross my mind. For me it’s just looking at UGG boots. Scratch that. I do more than look. I moan and then I hope, whine and beg. I caught a glimpse of the pair I feel like I need to have. Just the glimpse sent me into a place of pensive personality. I could feel my blinking getting slower as I dreamily dreamt of the possibility I could own this particular pair of pink UGG boots.
A gal once told me, “Jodi Rae. You get from the universe what you give to the universe.” Smart woman, that gal, she is. There I sat at the computer salivating over those pink UGG boots. Husband walked from the living room on his way to the bathroom. He passed by me and said, “I bought you a pair.”
My eyes grew huge like the national debt! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! At last I got the new, pink UGG boots I have been wanting and begging for.
“Husband must really love me,” I thought a romantic thought to myself. Do you remember that character from “Winnie the Pooh” named “Tigger?” He’s a bouncy little fella and I bounced up and down just like him. I bounced up to reach Husband’s lips with my kisses. I screamed in joy, praised him and danced before I bounced in delight some more. There was just one problem.
You know that moment when you notice your enthusiasm and kisses are not matching the reaction on your husband’s face? That was the problem. It was severe. He stood there rigid with his face contorting to a complexity unmatched by the other quirky things I’ve done in our marital union. I could hold my curiosity no longer.
“Where are they,” I anticipatingly asked?
“Where’s what,” he countered back with a flat affect?
Still bouncing I explained, “My new pair of pink UGG boots! Where are they?”
Scoffingly he replied, “Pfft! I’m not paying that much for a pair of boots just because they have a label.” He began to walk away but not before saying, “I meant I bought you a pear. It’s on the kitchen counter.”
Marriage is like politics but since I’m not talking about politics anymore now that I’m mature I’ll let you deduce how they are alike. Take a poll if you need to. I’m going to go dream the pink UGG boots just show up. I’ll color a picture of a pair hoping the universe gives to me what I give to it. If not, I’ll sit in a pew and hope a horse gallops on over to me with a pair and not a pear. Pears give me gas like a horse and that’s all I’m gonna say about that.
Ingstad lives on the prairie near Valley City and writes this column for the Times-Record.